CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Nay, the grain goes tae the eastern cottages first. They lost everythin’ in the fire.”
Isolda’s voice carried across the muddy square with an authority that Ragnar suspected she didn’t even realize she possessed. She stood with one hand on her hip and the other pointing toward a wagon, her dark hair escaping its braid in the salty wind, her eyes sharp with focus.
Ragnar watched from the half-rebuilt doorway of a storehouse, a hammer dangling loose in his grip. He’d gone down to the village to oversee structural repairs—the kind of work that required muscle and precision and kept his hands busy while his mind raced through coastal defenses.
Isolda moved between families with ease, crouching to speak with children, listening to complaints with her full attention, making decisions without glancing at him for approval.
“Yer mouth’s hangin’ open.”
Ragnar turned. Freyr leaned against the opposite post, arms folded, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“I’m—”
“Ye’ve been…observin’fer the better part of an hour.” Freyr nodded toward Isolda, who was now inspecting a shipment of dried fish with a critical eye. “She’s good at this. Good fer ye.”
Ragnar said nothing.
“The MacFarlane woman asked her tae settle a dispute over boundary markers this mornin’.” Freyr continued. “Two families screamin’ at each other since before the fires. Yer wife sorted it in ten minutes.”
“How?”
“Listened tae both sides, laid boundary stones, and told ‘em if they couldnae share the strip of land between ‘em, she’d give it tae the goats.” Freyr’s mouth twitched.
He turned back to watch her accept a bundle of herbs from Hilde, tucking them into her basket with a smile that transformed her entire face.
She’s nae just survivin’ anymore. She belongs.
“Me jarl?” A young lad appeared at his elbow. “There’s a beam on the third cottage that needs setting.”
Ragnar nodded and pushed off the doorframe, but his gaze found Isolda once more. As if sensing his attention, she looked up. Their eyes held across the crowded square, and the corner of her mouth curved.
The beam took the better part of an hour. After that came the thatch inspection, then a conversation with the blacksmith about hinges, then settling a disagreement between two of his men about the best way to reinforce a wall that had clearly been built by someone who’d never met a plumb line. By the time the sun reached its peak, Ragnar’s shoulders ached and his tunic was damp with sweat. He found Isolda sitting on a low stone wall near the well, a heel of bread in one hand and a cup of ale balanced on her knee.
“Ye’ve been busy,” he said, settling beside her.
“So have ye.” She tore the bread and handed him the larger half without looking at it. “Ye missed a spot of pitch on yer jaw, by the way.”
He scrubbed at it with his thumb. “Better?”
“Now ye’ve just smeared it.” She reached up and wiped the spot with her own thumb, her touch light, but her fingers lingered a fraction too long against the stubble on his jaw.
Ragnar caught her wrist gently and pressed his lips to her palm. “Thank ye.”
“Fer cleanin’ pitch off yer face?”
“Fer everythin’. The supply routes, the families, the goat ultimatum.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Freyr told ye about that.”
“He was impressed. As am I.” He released her wrist and reached for the ale. “Ye handled it better than I would’ve.”
“Ye’d have just glared at them until they agreed out of sheer terror.”
“Effective, though.”
“Aye, but me way daesnae give anyone nightmares.”
